The Mark of the Jaguar
by LosGatos
Summary: Moriarty is bored. bored with the ordinary people, and he wants to play a game. He decides to play with John Watson, and see how well he can solve a mystery without Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1: A New Game

Jim Moriarty should have, by any measure, been somewhat pleased with himself. Such was not the case. "Why did he have to feckin' jump?" he said to himself. "I didn't actually want him to kill himself." Ah, but you see Jim, you overestimated him. Thought he wouldn't panic, didn't you? Even put the fail-safe code in your pocket to make sure he found it. But he didn't think. He just went for it. That's what happens when you threaten a man's friends. They do anything they can to protect them. At least now he knew Sherlock had a heart. But it doesn't matter because he's fuckin' dead! Then it hit Jim. It hit him like a rock. Sherlock Holmes didn't kill himself, oh no. Jim had done all the killing that day. Jim killed Sherlock Holmes. This made him a little more despairing, knowing he had killed the only thing he lived for.

But let's say he was alive; let's say that, by some buck-wild miracle, Mr Holmes lived through the ordeal. Well he had been keeping a low profile, that's for sure. Even those wacky conspiracy theorists hadn't said anything. So then, back to playing with the ordinary people. Or was it? Jim remembered the other one. Watson. Oh yeah. He liked to think he was special, just because he spent his time with the famous consulting detective. That really got Jimmy's goat, people thinking they were better than what they were. He saw that justice needed to be dispensed. And who better to serve justice than the man who was best at destroying it? All of a sudden, Jim wasn't bored anymore. He thought of his plans. A devious mystery! Watson would never be able to solve it. And then, when the moment was right, the mastermind would strike.

John hadn't been having the best of months. Sherlock was only the beginning. There were TV crews, and journalists, and fangirls breaking down and crying at the front door. He hadn't left 221B Baker Street since the funeral, and it was beginning to show. There was hardly any food left, the place was stinking, and Mrs Hudson….. Well, she wasn't being as nice to him as she used to be. Even so, he couldn't live there forever. He was mainly relying on donations to his blog to keep up rent, but it wouldn't be enough. He would have to move out. He wasn't sure if he could do that. Yes, the place reminded him of Sherlock every waking minute, but it did have a certain charm to it. It felt like Holmes was still in there, in the walls and the plumbing and the bullet holes. But he was dead, no doubt. John had seen the blood all over the street.

There was no point in denying it; he would have to get up. He needed milk. He couldn't just stay here and rot and watch telly forever. He needed milk. But the phone went. He had a text. Number withheld.  
>"STAND UP"<br>John did so. He had been in these situations a thousand times. Who was it? Mycroft? Lestrade?  
>"GO DOWNSTAIRS"<br>Nah, Mycroft always preferred to just phone him.  
>"ANSWER IT"<br>Ding Dong. It was Lestrade. "John, we need your help on a case." He said.  
>"I'm not a detective, I'm a doctor. Now please go away."<br>"I thought you might say that. That's why I brought this along. Found it at the crime scene."  
>Lestrade held up a simple piece of paper. John knew there was something familiar about it. And then he saw it. Bohemian stationary. Fountain pen. Written on this piece of paper were four words.<p>

"Mark of the Jaguar."


	2. Chapter 2: A Shot In The Dark

"Mark of the Jaguar." John repeated. "Any idea what it means?" Lestrade was confused. "Oh wait, wrong side." He said, and turned the paper around. There, at the bottom right of the page were some tiny letters in some chicken scratch writing. "Watson," It read. "Come find me. I've killed someone."

As the two sat in the police car on the way to the crime scene, Watson asked "Did you find that on the body?" "Yes, but the person who reported the crime said it wasn't there when they saw the corpse." John was intrigued. "So, we're dealing with someone who returned to the scene of the crime?"  
>"Possibly, or intervention from an outside force."<br>"Who would possibly intervene on a random murder and ask for me?"  
>"Who said it's random?"<p>

John examined the body. Two revolver bullets in the back of the head. The rounds had been taken to the lab for examination already. Judging from the angle of impact, He was shot once from behind, and once down, he was shot again, just to make sure. The victim was identified as Paul Stromberg, 36, from Camden Town. "Well then," John said to Lestrade. "I've done all I can. Shot in the head, nothing more to it." Lestrade was impatient. "I don't think you understand, John. Someone is after you. Only you can do this. We want you to help solve this case."  
>John thought for a while and said "Let me see that paper again. Mark of the Jaguar, I can't help but think I've heard it before."<br>"Where have you heard it before?" Lestrade asked.  
>"I remember now. The Daily Mirror."<p>

"Yes," Said John as he flicked through the pages. "This was in here on the same day they covered Sherlock's fall. Some article from an anonymous source."

_**PROFILING BRITAIN'S GANGSTERS: MARK JACKSON  
><strong>__At first glance, Mark Jackson is an ordinary person. He has an ordinary job, an ordinary girlfriend, and an ordinary house. But this man is far from normal. Mark is an ex-drug dealer from Hackney, who was once part of the famous Jaguar Gang, a band of teenagers who robbed the rich to give to the poor. In the summer of 2008 Jackson was shot in the ankle by a rival gang member and was unable to walk for six months. Sources close to Jackson claim he still carries his iconic two-shot revolvers for protection, but Jackson himself was unavailable for comment. In 2009, He pleaded guilty to charges of drug abuse and was sentenced to 6 months rehabilitation. He is apparently now clean, and has been since rehab. In an official interview after his court case, he said that he had renounced his gang ways to become an upstanding citizen. In 2010, he was accused of assaulting a man outside a nightclub in Sheffield. He is awaiting a trial, scheduled for October of this year._

"So you think Jackson did it?" Lestrade asked.  
>"No," Replied Watson. "You don't just go back to a life of killing after going clean." "But you read the weapon description, it matches." "There are any number of revolvers in London, and any one of them could be the murder weapon. I'm not saying he definitely didn't do it, I'm just saying it's highly unlikely. I do think he is involved, though."<br>"So," Lestrade asked. "What do you want us to do with him?"  
>"Bring him in for questioning, see if he knows anything. Offer to suspend his trial if needs be."<p>

Oh, Jim, you clever boy. That's all it takes to get people interested, isn't it? Leave a note and ask for the great detective's lapdog. You didn't give him any clues, though. But he'll work it out, hopefully. At the very least, he's someone new to play with. Until Sherlock comes back. He will, won't he? Just because he jumped off a building doesn't mean he's dead. He's probably sitting in some shitehole somewhere, biding his time until his comeback can be a big surprise to everyone. Maybe he was like a Tupac/Elvis kind of figure, living in a bin in North Korea or something. But he'll come back. And when he does, Jim, you're going to have lots of fun.


	3. Chapter 3: Suspicion

Mark Jackson stared at his watch. It was midnight. His girlfriend would kill him if he had another late night at the office. He was just trying to earn some extra money, after all. He walked down the alley towards his apartment. Pitch black, he couldn't see a thing. Just as he was walking up the steps, he heard a clattering noise. Like metal hitting the ground. He reached into his trench coat and produced one of his revolvers. He was at the top of the steps. All he had to do to reach safety was open the door. Call the police if he felt paranoid enough. But that wasn't going to happen. He loved the thrill of danger, and the satisfaction of an explosive conclusion. He pointed his gun at the end of the alleyway. "Is anyone there? Come out now!" He shouted. It had been a long time since he knew that feeling of empowerment. He hadn't felt it since he left The Jaguars. "Whoever you are," He shouted, "I ain't scared of you!"

"Really?" Came the voice from behind him. "You sure about that? You won't be when you turn around." Mark did turn around. And then immediately wished he hadn't.

It was a detective. Not just a detective. A detective with an entire battalion of SWAT behind him. "Is this really necessary? I mean, with the special forces and all." Mark was flippant in the face of arrest. "Hilarious, really." Replied the detective. "But I'm bringing you in for questioning relating to the murder of Paul Stromberg."  
>Mark was confused. "And you needed an entire cavalry to do it? There are understaffed bases in the Middle East, you know."<br>Lestrade had an answer prepared. "We're….. Making a point to any of your friends who may be watching. You never know who's about. And would you drop the bloody gun? It's quite distracting."

Mark sat in the interrogation room. Lestrade walked in. "Let me just make this clear from the outset. I don't think you're guilty of anything. Anything you've done in the past, we're willing to forget about it. We just need you to answer a few questions." Lestrade said to Mark. Mark thought about his answer for a second, and then replied. "Alright. Shoot."  
>"Tell me about The Jaguars." Inquired Lestrade.<br>"Well, they're sort of like a bunch of Robin Hoodies. Rob the rich and give to the poor. And least that's what they said. I was actually making a tidy profit, but the bad blood with other crews was at boiling point. And then I got shot. So I left. Don't know much about them now."  
>Lestrade asked the important question. "What's the Mark of the Jaguar?"<br>"The Mark? Just something we left anywhere we stole from. Three vertical slashes in the wall. Made them with a knife. I was always the one to leave it, so they called me "Mark the Jaguar," shit name if you ask me."  
>Lestrade picked up his phone and called John. "John," He began, "Let me know if you find three vertical slashes on the body, or around the crime scene. Our man says that's The Mark."<p>

"Is that John Watson? Sherlock's partner?" Asked Mark.  
>"Yeah, that's him." Replied Lestrade. Just then, a woman walked into the room. "Sherlock Holmes? Yeah, I was actually the first to say he was a fraud. Knew it all along-" "Oh, for god's sake Donovan, shut up you pompous bitch!" The woman was out of the room in a flash. "Anyway, where were we?<p>

*Gasp* they've gone after Jackson, haven't they Jim? Idiots. He's just small fry. He might point them in the right direction, but he's ultimately insignificant. Insignificant is a word you like, isn't it Jim? Such a versatile word. It can be used to describe anything, because we're all unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But what grand scheme? It doesn't exist. All that matters is you having your fun. And you can't have fun if everyone else would rather be boring. Sherlock is….. was the only one who said "no, I'm not gonna be boring, I'm gonna entertain Jim."  
>Christ, maybe he really did owe him.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4: The Telltale Bird

John was disappointed. Lestrade had promised him this "Mark," which had never materialised. It was about two in the morning now, time to go home.

John opened the door to 221B Baker Street. Just as he was about to go up the stairs, Mrs Hudson appeared and spoke to him. "John, home at last! Thank god you're back; actually, I saw some yobs try to break into the basement. I scared them off, but if you wouldn't mind, take a look before you go up, will you? I know it's late, but I am worried." John was tired, but he couldn't refuse. Open the door, down the stairs.  
>Oh Bugger.<p>

John saw three things in the room. Each of these things were very worrying. But the most worrying thing was not the Mark of the Jaguar painted on the wall in blood. Nor was it the man strapped to a chair in the middle of the room, covered in semtex. Oh no. The most worrying thing in the room was a small TV in the corner of the room. And there it sat dark and foreboding. At least it did until the picture burst into life. There was a familiar face on screen. The face of the one they call The Storyteller.

"Are you sitting comfortably?" He asked. "Then I'll begin. This is the story of the tell-tale bird. The tell-tale bird always stood out from the crowd, because he was arrogant. He thought he was better than all the other birds. He thought he could fly faster than them all, he thought he was better looking, and he thought one day he would be king of the nest. One day, he looked over at the other nest and thought, "If I tell them our secrets, they'll all love me and make me important over here. Brilliant!" He thought to himself. So it's set. One day, he overheard the other birds in the nest talking about their secrets. So he flew over to the other nest, and told them all about what he heard. But they didn't give him a word of thanks. They just sent him back to his own nest, and when the other birds found out where he'd been, they were very angry with him. So angry that they sent him the way of Sir Boast-A-Lot. And we all remember what happened to him, don't we kids?"

The man with the semtex started screaming through the tape over his mouth. Then the explosives started beeping. Quickly. John started running up the stairs, but it was just a bit too late. White flash. Deafening noise. John was in hospital.


	5. Chapter 5: The Meeting

No noise.  
>No light.<br>No nothing.

And then he woke up. John felt like he'd been hit by a lorry. Everything was in slow motion. The light was blinding. The screaming in his ears was deafening. Back to sleep it was then. Where was he? What had happened? As he fell back into unconsciousness, He began to put the pieces of the puzzle back together.

Lestrade. Murder. Gangster. Mark. Jaguar. Mrs Hudson. Basement. Storyteller. Boom. What did it all mean?

John began to think. "Lestrade asked me to investigate a murde-"  
>"I'm sorry to interrupt you while you think out loud," Came a voice from across the room. "But I haven't got much time with you. And every moment is valuable."<br>The voice sounded familiar. "Sherlock?" Asked John.  
>The voice laughed, and then changed into something different. "No such luck, I'm afraid. But my impression is getting better, don't you think?" That voice. That one fucking thing he never wanted to hear again. In the room. He must have been dreaming, so he opened his eyes. No, it wasn't his imagination. It was, unfortunately, real. Bollocks.<p>

Jim Moriarty stood at the other side of the hospital room. "I only have a few minutes, but it's all I need," He said. "You surviving was expected. In fact, if you hadn't, I would have just killed a whole load of people to let off steam."  
>"What the hell are you doing here? You're dead." John said. "Is this all your doing?"<br>"If you say so."  
>"Bollocks. That was you on the TV. You left the mark." John was adamant.<br>"What the hell? You just assume that I killed someone, because I planted one little bomb? That Stromberg boy wasn't my doing, oh no. I find that shooting someone is just too….. Bland." Moriarty began to really annoy John.  
>"So can I assume that your "Little Bird" left the hint about the Mark?" John asked.<br>Jim began to stumble. "Well, actually, it wasn't. I just felt like killing someone. Baker Street seemed like a good place to do it. But don't worry; your precious Hudson is alive. Well, on life support, But that seems alive enough to me, don't you agree?

"You bastard," John struggled, "I'll kill you. I'll kill you with my bare hands!"  
>"Pfft!" Jim was laughing his head off now. "No you won't! Now…." The Storyteller looked at his watch. "I have to go. Catch me if you can!"<p>

And it all went black again.


	6. Chapter 6: Heat

Mark Jackson stood at the street corner, wondering why the bloody hell he'd agreed to work with those detectives. Money? Nah, it wasn't money. Thrill of a chase, he supposed. He was going to go after some suspected members of the Jaguars who were allegedly the same people who broke into that Baker Street apartment. But so far all they had was a vehicle description. Lestrade stood beside him, and kept going on about "Good old fashioned police work" or some other nonsense. It was the hottest summer on record, and the mass of Chelsea F.C. fans flooding the streets didn't help. They were looking for four dickheads in a crowd of thousands, In the middle of a heat wave. "Oi," said Lestrade. "I'm going to that shop around the corner to get coffee, you want anything?"  
>Mark considered for a moment, and then said, "Yeah, black, no sugar?"<p>

Mark focused. He was supposed to be looking out for four Caucasian males, aged between 17 and 24. According to reports, they were supposed to be coming down the street in a black BMW which was probably stolen. "Any minute now," He thought to himself. Official instructions were to track the suspects and wait for backup to arrive, but when had mark followed the rules before?

Lestrade had been gone about 5 minutes when the BMW cruised down the street and stopped outside the restaurant. Mark didn't need to look twice. The two people in the front were once his underlings in the gang. He didn't recognize the two in the back. The car's occupants got out and walked into the restaurant which Mark also recognized as a front for some high value drug deals. He thought about waiting for Lestrade, but the opportunity was too good to miss. He pulled his cap down to hide his face and tailed the gangsters.

The gang of four were already sat at a table when Mark walked in. They were whispering nervously amongst themselves. A waiter approached him.

"We're sorry sir, but we don't have any tables free at the moment. Would you like to wait until something is available?" Said the waiter in an accent that was so posh, Mark could have sworn he was taking the piss. "Uh, yeah." He replied. "For two, please. My friend isn't here yet."

Pretty soon, a table was available and would you believe it, it was right next to the suspects. Mark walked over and sat down. He didn't hear much of what they were saying, but it didn't sound like anything to be nervous about. But as luck would have it, one of them stood up and said, "Going for a slash, lads. Be right back." Just then, Mark got a text.

"WHER R U? GL" it read. Lestrade was looking for him. Mark responded. "RED LETTER, ACROSS THE STREET. DON'T COM IN. GOIN 2 GET INFO. MJ." Mark stood up and followed the Jaguar into the bathroom, ad sure enough, there he was, having a piss. Mark made sure no one was around, and then locked the door. This made the target suspicious. "Oi mate, you want something?" He asked. "Not much," Mark replied innocently. "I just wanted to know something." The last thing the suspect remembered was the fist flying towards his nose.

When he came to, Two men were standing over him. One was vaguely familiar, the other was a new face. He realised who the familiar face was. "Marky," He laughed. "It's been such a long time. And who's your boyfriend?" Mark looked smug. "This is detective inspector Greg Lestrade. And he'd like to ask you some questions, Vincent. Do you know what a question is?"


	7. Chapter 7: Mental Trauma

Jim sat in his Batcave, wondering what he could do next. The Detective and the ex-criminal were walking into a whole heap of trouble, and as far as he knew, Watson was unconscious. He had a hidden camera set up in the room where that Vincent boy was about to get his shite knocked in. He would have liked to have said he planned it all from the start, but such was not the case. He just so happened to have a camera in most of the rooms in London. He wondered what he had been drinking when he ordered for one to be put in all he men's rooms, but that was irrelevant. What he did know was that it was all about to go to shit in the Red Letter Restaurant. But we'll get onto that later, children.

John Watson woke up for what must have been the eighth time that morning. Or was it the afternoon? He realised he didn't know what time it was. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. It was like a thousand knives being buried in his cerebral cortex. So he tried moving his neck. He screamed in agony. "Easy!" Yelled a female voice. "You have a massive pain in your neck; we're going to give you something so you can't feel it. John didn't really feel them giving him anything, but he noticed himself slowly drifting back into La-La Land. As he slept (again) He remembered what had happened. He had a visitor. Moriarty, who had told him that Mrs Hudson was on life support. Mrs Hudson was on life support.  
>That woke him up.<p>

He opened his eyes. It didn't hurt this time. Neither did moving. He was ok. As ok as a man who's just been half blown up can be. He lay there in his hospital bed, thinking about that poor old woman, whose life had been ruined enough by the dynamic duo and was now on life support. Was she brain-damaged? Was she paralysed? He had to find out. He examined his surroundings.

Standard hospital room, very much akin to the one he was sent to after he got injured in Afghanistan. Single room, must have been in intensive care for a bit. There was a door on his right that he assumed led to a bathroom. He stood up and walked. It was easier than he thought it would be. He walked into the bathroom to have a peek at his injuries.  
>He checked himself in the mirror. There was a nasty scar down the right side of his face and the bottom-left had some burn marks on it, but he was otherwise ok. How long had he been out for? Hours? Days? Weeks? He would get his answer soon enough.<p>

He went back and sat on his bed for a while. He tried thinking about how he got into this mess, but he didn't bother. All that mattered was that he find out what was going on there and then. A few minutes later, a doctor came in to speak to him.

"Mr Watson! I see you're in much better condition than you were last week."  
>Week? How long was he gone?<br>"How long has it been since the explosion?" He asked. The doctor looked thoughtful for a minute, and said, "Two weeks, Three days and thirteen hours exactly. I tell you, Mr Watson, it looked like we might have had you back last week. But then you had a visitor, and you went back out. Scan showed some sort of mental trauma."

"This visitor," John inquired. "What was his name?"  
>"I can't remember off the top of my head, a Richard… Something? Brookers? Said he knew you personally?" The doctor replied.<p>

"Oh yeah." Said John. "We know each other."


	8. Chapter 8: Weaponfire

Greg Lestrade was quite disappointed. He had just spent 20 minutes in a men's room trying to question a complete idiot who insisted he knew his rights and was entitled to a solicitor. Annoyingly, he was right, so Greg went outside to call for someone to take him to the station. Mark followed him, leaving a bewildered Vincent in the bathroom.

"Hang on a minute," said Mark. "There were three of his mates sitting at that table over there. They're gone. Where did they go?"

"Who cares?" replied Greg, "Just make sure the kid doesn't escape."

Greg called for a car. About ten seconds later a car did arrive, but it wasn't the sort they were expecting. It pulled up outside the restaurant, all tinted windows and 21 inch chrome spinners and the like. Then whoever was in the front passenger seat wound the window down. Then they started firing.

The bullets came screaming through the window like wildfire at eight hundred feet per second. Glass smashed into a million tiny little pieces and people were running for their lives out the back door, directed there by the amazingly calm staff who had taken cover behind walls. Mark and Greg dived behind the front counter.

The gunfire continued. "Jesus Christ! Will he ever run out of ammo?" Yelled Lestrade. The two men were so busy staying alive that they didn't notice the man running from the toilets. As the shooter paused for a moment to reload, Mark stood up, produced one of his revolvers and aimed it at where the car's fuel tank would be.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots and the Lexus exploded in a flurry of blue and red flame. It shot up into the air and appeared to stay there for about five seconds before descending as a burnt wreck. Greg and Mark stood up to examine their surroundings. The wall behind them had been almost totally hollowed out by bullet holes, and the floor wasn't much better. No one else was around, so whoever was firing must have been a tremendously bad shot.

"Nice one." Said Lestrade with a degree of gratitude.

"No problem," Said Mark. "Just remember you owe me one."

Greg's mind turned to more important matters. "Jesus, check the bathroom! Vincent might have got out!"

Mark did so, but found no one there. "Damnit! Fucker must have escaped while we were being shot at. He's got some balls. In fact, I'll bet any money you like that he set that up. It were his mates in the car, I know it were." He ranted.

"Calm down." Replied Greg. "We didn't need him anyway, he was just small fry. But we have lost our only lead. Maybe it's time to check on our good friend John Watson again…"

John sat on his bed, sharpening the scalpel he had found against the metal bedpost. He remembered what Doctor Kohls said to him.

"Brooks! That was his name, I remember now. Seen him on TV a few times as a matter of fact. Told me that he met you in school and forgot to keep in touch, but he heard you were in hospital and decided to stop by. Poor you, you probably can't remember it. I'd show you the CCTV tapes, but strangely enough we had a bit of trouble with the cameras. Fixed now, but it's strange, huh? Anyway, he said he'd call back… well, today as a matter of fact. So you should expect him within a few hours…"

John came back to the real world. He stared out his window at London below, thinking about how small everyone looked. He was just one man with a vendetta against another. He was going to kill whoever came through that door next. Just then his phone rang. It was Doctor Kohls.

"John?" Said the doctor. "You have a visitor; I'm sending them up now."

John hid behind the door. About a minute later there was a knock on the door. No voice, just a knock.

Knock knock.

"Come in" Replied John.

The door opened. A figure walked through. John didn't even bother to see who it was. He just lunged with the scalpel.


	9. Chapter 9: From The Highest

The woman in red walked down the same dreary hallway for what felt like the millionth time. Almost every day, she had come here. Be it for work, or for personal matters. But now was not a time for working. She knew who she was about to see. She was unsure of whether to punch him in the face or comfort him and tell him it was going to be alright. This man had, in many ways, helped ruin her life.

Up the stairs and into another boring corridor. The government can buy almost anything, but it can't buy character. Talk about a shit place to die. She thought about taking the elevator, but the staircase had windows. She didn't want to lock herself in an airless box that she couldn't trust.

This man she was visiting had a room at the end of the hall. She thought she had heard something about him being moved, but he was suffering from mental trauma. Why would they move him? It didn't make any sense, but then again, this was the NHS. The whole bloody operation didn't make much sense.

The door came into view. Room 312. The doorknob had a faint smell of blood about it. This made her quite suspicious. She opened the door almost apprehensively, and seeing no one in the bed, walked in slowly, like she was expecting something to lunge out at her. Something did lunge out at her, but not quite what she was expecting.

"Hello, Molly." Came a flat, toneless voice from the shadows. She froze.

The voice continued. "And how have you been keeping lately? Good? I expect so. Any failed relationships recently? And I mean apart from that one who just wanted a passport, obviously."

She knew who it was. That voice could only belong to one person.

"I… I didn't expect to see you back so… Early." She stuttered. "I mean, not that I knew you would be back, of course, I…"

"You should save your breath for the journalist who's going to say she saw this, the liar." Responded the voice. "You know, I don't really like journalists. Let's just say I had a bad experience with them when I was younger."

The owner of the voice stepped out into the light so Molly could get a good look at him. Sure enough, there he stood. That coat he had turned up at the collar. The scarf. And those eyes. Those dead, staring, piercing eyes. Looking her in the face for the first time in ages. And yet, they seemed to convey an emotion. They seemed to reach out and silently scream from the highest.

"Help me. I need you."

Molly Hooper was standing face to face with Sherlock Holmes. She did not blink, she did not move, She found it hard to speak. But she tried anyway. "What do you need from me?" She asked him, fighting back the tears.

"I need you." He answered. "I need you to make sure he's ok. Don't tell him I'm here, he will find me in time." It almost looked like he was sad. Struggling to free himself from his mortal confines.

Molly had many questions. "Sherlock, did you…Die?" She asked him.

He appeared to consider this for a while, and replied, "I did indeed perish in my suicide. But make no mistake, I am Sherlock Holmes. I have returned from the other side," He grabbed her by the shoulders. "And there is nothing there. Now leave this place, Molly Hooper. And never forget who you are."

Just then, they heard a scuffle from downstairs.

"What the bloody hell was that?"


	10. Chapter 10: Room 229

Mark and Lestrade got out of the car and started to walk towards the hospital. As they walked, Mark looked at the spot where Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground. There was almost an aura around it, some element of mystery that no one was quite sure of. There was just something not totally right about that one patch of land. Hallowed ground, as they say.

The pair walked into the hospital. The receptionist didn't even bother looking up from his newspaper. Lestrade became impatient. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, London-"

"I know who you are." Replied the receptionist, still not looking up. "Your boss said you'd be coming around. The man you want is in 229." Greg could have sworn he knew that voice, but he couldn't be arsed investigating further. The pair walked towards the elevator.

"I hate elevators," Groaned mark. "They always give me that feeling that they're going to break."

"Well, get used to it sunshine, 'cause in my line of work things break down all the time." Replied Lestrade. It almost seemed like banter, But he was fully aware that this was not to last. Once this murder was solved, Mark was to go back to being a civilian, and Lestrade was to have nothing to do with him. Mycroft's orders. Bloody bureaucrat.

As they went up in the elevator, Lestrade thought about what the pair had been through. "You know Mark, I never got to repay you for saving my life." He said gratefully. Mark was laughing. "Are you joking me?" He asked. "This has been brilliant. Especially that bit where I sent the car up in flames and- I'm still a yobbo, aren't I?"

This got them both laughing. But it was a hollow laugh, one that didn't last very long. There was a sense of unease among the two as the elevator ground to a halt.

"Thank Christ, that was taking forever."

The pair arrived at room 229. Lestrade knocked on the door. "Come in." John's voice came from inside the room.

"After you."

Mark walked into the room quietly, but he couldn't see anyone. Just then, something appeared in the corner of his eye. It was the flash of light on metal. Before he could even blink, it was on top of him.

Mark held back his attacker. "Blow me up, will you, you little hoodie shit!" It yelled. Lestrade protested in the background, but Mark couldn't hear him. He had other priorities at that moment. As Mark continued to fight back, His hearing became a little clearer, but the shouting was still going on.

"I've killed people! I've ripped a man's guts out with my bare hands!" It went on.

Mark began to hear what Lestrade was saying. "For fuck's sake, John, Get the bloody hell off of him!" the attacker seemed to hear this as well. He finally began to relent. "Count yourself lucky," Snarled John. "Because I was about to cut your face wide open."

Lestrade seemed to have heard enough of this. "John, you idiot! He's on our side! Are you dense? He's saved my life!" This outburst seemed to startle all of the men in that room. All except for one.

John had calmed down a bit and had questions. "What did you find out about the murder?" He asked. "Nothing, our man got away." Replied Mark. John looked almost disappointed. Lestrade looked like he was about to speak, but he was interrupted by the figure coming out of the shadows.

"Tut-tut-tut. I'm sure you girls think you're doing some sort of noble deed here," The figure explained. "But I'm bored again now, so I might as well come out and say it. What you have done was all for nothing."

"Who's that?" Asked Mark. "Show yourself!"

But Lestrade and John knew who it was, and they were none too happy about it. Of course it was him, There was no mistaking it. Nobody could fake that sharp accent and flat, piercing tone.


	11. Chapter 11: Jim'll Fix It

"Jim Moriarty." Said John, his mouth half open in disbelief.

The man stepped out into the light to reveal himself. And sure enough, there he was, smirking like a bastard, always confident that he had won.

"Oh, happy day! John bloody Watson recognizes the obvious! And to think, that for one moment, for one fucking moment, I thought you above the normal people! I overestimated you! And this is how you repay me? Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. It's true isn't it? Society has well and truly taken a dive straight out of the fucking window and into the toilet. But then again, I'm basing that on the three bloody stooges standing in front of me. There are 7 O-Levels in this room, and they all belong to me." Jim went on.

John became impatient. "Well then, if you're done-"

"Don't interrupt me when I'm in the middle of a feckin' monologue! Honestly, you monkeys have no sense of theatre whatsoever. Surely even a bunch of simpletons such as yourselves know this scene? The valiant heroes walk into a room to meet for the first time, before our handsome and nefarious villain rudely interrupts them to explain everything! I've actually just made that up, but give me marks for good storytelling, won't you? After all, my dear Watson, you know what I'm like as a storyteller. But you're wondering what's going on, aren't you?"

Lestrade was furious. "What's there to wonder about?" He asked. "You've killed someone, you're coming with us." Jim seemed to frown at this. John was a lot calmer. "This is another game, isn't it? It's about Sherlock. I know it is." He was insistent.

Jim groaned loudly. "I haven't seen such a big bunch of dickheads since that time I went to Brighton." He quipped. "You've got it all wrong. Sure, at first, I wanted to play a game that would put you back in your place. But I realised it was hopeless, so I just killed someone instead. I dropped the name Watson because I thought someone might pick up on it and it would give me something to do. Don't you realise? The Jaguars, the bomb, Mrs Hudson, It all doesn't matter! It's just pure coincidence! And you've had to get this poor innocent boy involved, you pair of bastards. And you know something? It almost breaks my heart, killing a fellow criminal with so much potential. After all, he could have been my apprentice. But he's going to die along with you two."

Mark was shocked. "Die? And can someone please explain what's happening here?"

Jim's voice was a lot more flat and solemn now. "Yeah, die. And don't worry, you won't need an explanation. Just so long as you believe in god." Jim produced his gun. "Now, any last requests?"

John almost seemed accepting of his fate. "Just the one." He said grimly.

Jim almost seemed annoyed. "Spit it out, then." He said impatiently.

John smiled. "Dear Jim. Can you fix it for me, for you to fall out of a window?"

Oh no, John boy. But someone can.


	12. Chapter 12: The Five

Five men are standing in a room. Time seems to stop.

Man Number One was once a doctor, now his life is a mess. He stands there, having dragged 2 people into a life and death situation they should have had no part of in the first place. He is desperately hoping for a miracle, which if he's lucky will come from Man Number Five. Otherwise, He awaits his death at the hands of Man Number Four. He's good friends with Man Number Two, but friends aren't totally relevant at a time like this. He dragged Man Number Three into this solely on a hunch, and is only now questioning his judgement. He's been through a lot over the past Thirty Six hours, and has just found out it was all a game being played By Man Number Four. As he waits for death, he has a religious crisis, thinking about all those people he killed in the war. Is there a Hell? Is there a Heaven? Is it all a load of monkey dust?  
>His name is John.<p>

Man Number Two stands in a similar situation to John, Thinking he is going to die at the hands of Man Number Four, Who is pointing his gun at John's head. The main difference between the two is That Man Number Two has lost faith in Man Number Five showing up. As he stands there, he thinks about all he has been through with Man Number Three. They have only known each other for less than a day, but he owes Number Three big time for saving his life. He is just as pissed off as John after learning his ordeal was a farce. He's a detective so he should have seen this coming. It was his job to detect things, and he had made a right bollocks out of it this time. He hates John so much right now, some friend he was. He waits patiently and calmly for the outcome.  
>His name is Lestrade.<p>

Man Number Three has been in situations like this before. He wants to pull out his revolvers and kill Man Number Four. He knows, however that if he does that, Number Four will pull the trigger before he can. He wonders who Number Four is but he thinks he recognizes him from somewhere. The news or something like that. He knows who John is but he has never met him in the flesh until now. Initially, He was wary of Lestrade, but now he trusts him deeply. In his old days he would never have worked with a copper because he would have got shot. But he was about to get shot now, so some things never change. He reflects on his life, on his job, on his girlfriend, and on that pathetic gang he used to be in. He could have been a priest. He could have been a priest and all this never would have happened. But he made his choice, and now it was time to make another. Live or die.  
>His name is Mark.<p>

Man Number Four holds all the aces. He has the leverage, in the form of a gun. He can make almost any demand he wants, but he just wants to kill the three pricks standing in front of him. John for being a dickhead, Lestrade for being a copper, and Mark because... Well, just fucking because. He doesn't factor in Man Number Five, because he sees no need to. He is well and truly out of his fucking mind. Time starts again. He randomly aims his gun. He pulls the trigger.  
>His name is Jim.<p>

Man Number Five has not acted fast enough.  
>His name is Not Important.<p> 


	13. Chapter 13: It Starts Again FINALE

It was over in a second. A single bullet flew across the room at 400 feet per second. It sliced through the air and straight into the chest of the man Jim Moriarty had been trying to hit. Not bad for someone who hadn't even aimed properly.

John Watson hit the ground almost instantly. It seemed like an eternity before his two companions reacted. Mark Jackson looked like he was having trouble taking it all in. Like he couldn't believe what had just happened. Unusual for a gangster, that. Greg Lestrade was down on the floor performing CPR and shouting for help.

Jim Moriarty was laughing his demented head off. While Mark and Lestrade were faffing around, he walked over to the door and sealed it shut. He paced the room, still laughing whilst Mark tried to phone someone but couldn't get a mobile signal. Jim had done everything perfectly. "Don't bother shouting for help," He told Lestrade. "This room is soundproofed. Why else would I have had him moved here? All is going according to plan! I don't see why you're in such a panic about it all."

John was still alive but struggling to keep his eyes open. Mark was screaming at Jim. "Get down, you bastard! I'll shoot you!" Jim did not seem too impressed by this.

"Put that weak little toy down, child." He said calmly. "You haven't got the balls to shoot me. You wouldn't dare pull that trigger if your life depended on it. I know you like to think you're "badman," but you're just a little wimp. Now which one of you should I kill nex-"

Mark blinked. But that was all it took. Three tenths of a second and he opened his eyes again. There was no sound. No movement. Not a thing to suggest anyone had gone anywhere. But Moriarty was gone. Vanished. Flown the nest. He had disappeared into thin air. All that remained was the open window he was standing in front of. But he didn't jump. He couldn't have jumped so quickly.

"Greg!" Yelled Mark. "He's gone!"

"I bloody know that!" Lestrade replied furiously, still performing CPR. "There are more important things right now! Get that door open!"

Mark did as he was told. Time seemed to disappear quicker than Jim did. Shouting for a doctor. Emergency response staff with the stretcher. Lestrade holding on and telling John he would be fine. But then came the wait, that agonizing wait. The two men sitting outside the emergency room, not saying a word to each other. When the doctors came out, Greg was the first to speak.

"What's his condition?" He asked quietly.

The doctor seemed apprehensive. "We… think he's stable for now. It's really difficult to say at a time like this. We haven't actually been able to remove the bullet just yet, we think it may have clipped his heart and blood has been a real issue. So, we might be able to save him, but for now, it isn't brilliant, to say the least." He replied.

Lestrade did not reply to this. He looked like he had seen enough. He just said his final goodbyes to Mark and left the hospital. As he left, Mark reflected upon his experiences. There was simply no way he could go back to living a normal life after this. He knew what he had to do. He walked out of the building and down the street, No longer burdened with the mark of the jaguar, a changed man.

Jim Moriarty woke up. He couldn't open his eyes. Nor could he remember anything about last night. He must have really outdone himself this time. His alarm clock should have been going off any second now, so he reached over the bed for it.

"That's my hand you're touching."

What the hell was that voice? It was… Distinctly English. Government sounding, even. What the hell happened last night? He had a killer headache. And then, all of a sudden, he realised. He wasn't on his big comfy bed. He wasn't in his New York apartment. He wasn't even lying down, He was sitting. Where was he? Who was he with?

Jim reached forward. He touched… leather. A circle, of some sort. A steering wheel. He was sitting in the driver's seat. And judging by the comfort he was sitting in, some sort of big luxury car. He finally got his eyes wide open. But he didn't bother turning around to see who he was next to. He just spoke.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"Can't really say." Came that upper class accent. "Christ, don't you remember anything?" Asked the mysterious stranger.

"No, I can't say I do…" Answered Jim. But it was all coming back to him. Hospital. Gun. John. Window. Sky.

"Aw, Christ." Moaned Jim. "I was supposed to kill those other two! For fuck's sake… Hey, where are we, anyway?"

The voice answered again. "The West Country. I would actually have had you killed by now, but I'm not supposed to. Brother's orders, He wants to see what you do. I guess he has to call the shots every once in a while."

Jim was confused. "What exactly do I do?" He asked.

"You drive, Mr Moriarty." Replied the voice. "My brother was insistent that your car be a Jaguar. But then, he always had a sense for theatrics, as I'm sure you will agree. Now," He opened the door. "This is where I get off. Have a good trip, Mr Moriarty. And try not to kill too many people."

No promises on that end.

The man got out. Jim knew exactly where he was going. He turned the key in the ignition and listened as he revved the engine to breaking point. He had a long journey, so he might as well formulate his next plan.

And it starts again.

Fin.


	14. Chapter 14: Cold Steel PREVIEW

Mark Jackson looked around his old apartment. He almost regretted deciding to leave, but he knew what he had to do. This was no longer his home. He decided to come at midnight and leave at the crack of dawn. He needed some time to collect himself.

He looked at all those pictures on the wall. All those photos of him and his girlfriend. they were all meaningless now. She was in bed with the milkman anyway. Working with the police can tell you things. He didn't need much. He just needed a change of clothes for every now and again, and a big pile of cash to keep him alive. That wouldn't be a problem. He'd a lot of money saved from when he dealt drugs and killed people. Blood money, perhaps, but it was money nonetheless. He considered going to say goodbye to his family, but they wouldn't miss him. He doubted they would notice his absence.

It had been 2 months since the Moriarty Incident, and the mystery man who worked for the government had tried to contact him. He said he could tell Mark what he needed. But this was about more than just revenge.

The last he heard, John Watson was still in a coma. Poor guy. They said his heart might never work properly again, but in John's line of work, it was an occupational hazard. Mark finally decided to set off. But how? It wasn't a question he knew the answer to. He would be going away for a long time. He had long distances to cover. And he hated public transport. Hated it with a passion. It was claustrophobic. He couldn't be around so many other people in the one cramped space, in one giant, filthy, metal death coffin. He still hadn't figured out the solution to his problem as he was leaving. But as he was walking out the door, a glint from the hall table caught his eye.

Mark walked towards the garage. It looked as though no one had visited it for an eternity. Not a soul had opened that door in about 30 years, and it showed. The lock was rusted and the key wouldn't turn, so he had to kick the door down and open the garage door from the inside. And when he got in, sure enough, there it stood, in perfect condition. The gleaming silver speed machine that was his uncle Brick's 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T. It hadn't been tampered with in any way, and it was as good as cars get. In the 70s, his uncle won so many street races in America with this car they nicknamed it the Monster Dog. Mark got in the car, but before he started the engine, he saw the note on the passenger seat.

"_Dear Marcus."_ It read. _"I know this car will be a great help to you someday. It has seen me through thick and thin, and I know the time will come when you need it more than I do. Just bear in mind I'll want it back someday."_

Uncle Brick was still alive somewhere. He ran off in the 90s and hadn't been seen since. Mark checked his watch. 6:30 A.M. First light. Time to leave for wherever he was going. He was going to kill Jim Moriarty.

Somewhere on the other side of the city, John Watson opened his eyes.


End file.
